


Waging Wars Behind His Face

by Mohini



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aura - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Migraine, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 17:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16309172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: Even with his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the sofa, Buck’s clearly not comfortable. He shifts and rearranges himself every few minutes, head moving from one side to the other, arms crossed, then loose at his sides, then crossed again.





	Waging Wars Behind His Face

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr @Mohini-Musing

They’re better than half through the film when Steve realizes that Bucky’s rubbing at his eyes every few minutes. He reaches for the remote and still the images on the screen. Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice.

“You okay there?” he asks.

Bucky startles, looking in Steve’s general direction with eyes that don’t seem to be focusing properly.

“Yeah, stupid question. Head hurting?” Steve tries again.

“Just a little blurry,” Bucky replies. “Can’t see right or something.”

That sounds weird, even for them. There haven’t been any recent missions, or at least not for them. No one’s quite ready to set Buck loose on the world and Steve won’t leave him alone. The only things Steve can think of the leads to blurry vision is a concussion, and without missions or sparring (Bucky’s choice – he won’t fight Steve or Natasha and they’re the only ones willing to fight him), he can’t come up with anything that would have concussed him.

“Blurry?”

“Yeah, can’t keep anything focused, little weirdly shiny, too. Like the lights are glaring off the back of my eyes.”

“That’s really strange, Buck. D’you want me to call Banner?”

“Nah, it’ll pass. You can put the movie back on, I’ll just close my eyes and rest them for a bit,” he insists.

Steve’s not so sure that’s a solid choice but he can’t come up with anything better so he does that he’s told and hits play, filling the room once more with the sounds of the battle room. It’s a strange film, kids training for war, but engaging in its own way. The tech involved seems implausible, but then, Chitauri, so what does Steve know anyway.

Even with his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the sofa, Buck’s clearly not comfortable. He shifts and rearranges himself every few minutes, head moving from one side to the other, arms crossed, then loose at his sides, then crossed again.

Colonel Graff is convincing Valentine Wiggin to come see her brother at some remote lake when Buck goes bolting from the room. Steve pauses the thing again and chases Buck to the bathroom, grabbing a hair tie from the doorknob and securing loose, dark strands out of Buck’s face with it on habit. _Man bun,_ Steve’s brain helpfully supplies as he twists the elastic around once more to make sure none of the hair escapes.

Buck’s got his face buried in the flesh arm that’s wrapped around the rim of the toilet, the bright metal one braced against the floor to keep him steady.  

“You okay?” Steve asks, immediately feeling like an idiot. The room reeks of vomit. Obviously he’s not okay. But what he is, Steve has no idea. They’re both used to Bucky puking from nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, but this is new.

“M’head,” Bucky mumbles, before gagging hard enough to make the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief.

When he’s breathing in a slow, steady rhythm and Steve’s flushed away the evidence, Buck can’t get his eyes open without tensing up like he’s in agony. Steve asks again if he wants him to call Banner, and gets an emphatic shake of the head that sets off several more minutes of choking on nothing but acid and air.

If Banner is out of the question, Steve decides that the next best thing is Sam. A couple of texts later, he’s Googling migraines and heeding Sam’s advice to avoid WebMD at all costs. Meanwhile, Buck crawls off the rim of the toilet to curl up in a ball on the floor, both arms cradling his head and breathing impossibly slowly.

Steve scrolls through different bits of advice and settles on a few options he deems relatively unlikely to put him in danger of getting his ass kicked. Buck might look harmless and even a tiny bit fragile on the tile floor, but Steve knows good and well that he can aim a punch without looking. Shaking him awake during a nightmare was a thing that only happened once for good reason.

He wets a hand towel in the cold stream of the faucet, folding it over and over and placing it at the back of Bucky’s neck. Then he wets another to drape gently over the upper part of Buck’s face, blocking out as much light as he can without covering his nose and mouth. Painkillers are useless on either of them, so he doesn’t bother with the suggestions to offer aspirin, acetaminophen, or ibuprofen. Caffeine seems like a good idea, if Buck wasn’t already hurling. But he is, and Steve’s not about to risk Buck having to taste the bitter brew he favors on a return trip.  So he sits and waits in the bathroom, lights off, and one hand holding Buck’s to make sure he knows he’s not alone.

He knows Buck's subtle movements better than his own, and he lifts him over the rim of the toilet over and over, keeping him upright and holding one hand across his forehead to keep his face out of the water each time the pain in his head brings his stomach into his throat. He's barely even puking, but it doesn't make much difference in the obvious misery. Bucky rests between bouts with his cheek pressed to the cold floor, Steve's hand in his and watching closely in the darkness for every twitch of his jaw.

When they’ve made it half an hour without more heaving, Steve coaxes Bucky to his feet, tucking himself under Buck’s arm and half dragging him to the bedroom.

Buck’s not talking, just grunting in tones that seem to approximate yes or no as Steve gets him into the bed, under the blankets, and rolled onto one side in case his stomach goes into revolt again. Trying to get in the bed with him gets a remarkably well aimed shove from a flailing metal arm, and Steve doesn’t try it again. Instead, he settles for sitting just inside the door of the room, far enough away that Buck’s not cringing at the sound of his breathing but close enough to track the tiny hints of grimace that tell him when he needs to change out compresses to keep the chilled cloths on Buck’s skin and ease what small bit of the pain he can.


End file.
